Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage.

What, can the devil speak true?

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

A light heart lives long.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning